


A Fragile Peace

by yet_intrepid



Series: punks like us [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen or Pre-Slash, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 07:26:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11436012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yet_intrepid/pseuds/yet_intrepid
Summary: After their brief captivity on Randon, Luke and Wedge can't sleep.





	A Fragile Peace

The base is never totally quiet. Luke has learned that much in the short time he’s been on Yavin IV. There’s always someone running errands, sleeping off flight lag, passing intel, or chatting in the halls. It bothers Luke; Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru were usually asleep before he was, and the stillness of the farm surrounding him always helped him get to bed. He never shared a room before, either—it wasn’t so bad with just Wedge, who didn’t snore, but on base Luke shares his room with five other people, and there’s always someone shifting or making noise.

It’s irritating, and that’s why he’s up. Or that’s why he tells himself he’s up, anyway, because it would be ridiculous for him to be wandering around just because he misses Wedge.

Luke turns left, absently; there’s nowhere in particular he’s going. He’d rather be asleep, but the dreams keep on coming even when he can fight his way into some semblance of rest. They were bad enough before Randon, but they’ve been worse in the two days since.

He keeps seeing it all: Wedge’s pale face, his grim smile, his body contorting wildly beneath the electroprod. And he keeps feeling it, too, the fists and the boots. The lightning of pain jolting up his spine, the skin of his wrists raw from struggling against his shackles.

He turns left again, into some sort of common area that he’s been in once or twice before. There’s a couple couches there, mismatched and saggy, and relief surges in Luke. It’s quieter here, will be for a couple hours probably, and even as old as the couches are, they’re probably about as decent as the cheap mattress on his bunk.

Luke steps further into the room, assessing the couches. The plaid one with its back to him seems the most comfortable, so he heads towards it.

“Luke?”

Luke startles, then settles when he realizes: it’s Wedge, sitting up from where he’s lying on the plaid couch. The smile Wedge flashes at Luke is almost as grim as it was in the police station, and Luke shudders.

“Hey, husband,” he says, anyway, in a joking tone. “What are you doing up?”

“Oh, you know,” says Wedge. He waves an airy hand, then gestures for Luke to sit next to him on the couch. “Reliving our honeymoon on Randon.”

“Me too,” says Luke. He folds up his legs as he sits down on the couch, keenly aware of his bruised shins and burn-speckled arms. He’d thought about putting on clothing that would cover that before wandering around base, but the sticky heat of Yavin IV dissuaded him.

Wedge’s arm brushes his, stays there a second too long. “I keep,” Wedge says, “I keep seeing…” and then he breaks off, shaking his head. “And I got sort of used to sharing a bed, not going to lie.”

Luke’s heart rushes with excitement, then sobers back down into the steady thrum of concern. “What do you keep seeing?” he asks.

Wedge peers over at him, hesitating. “All of it,” he says. “My sister, the inspector. You.”

“Yeah,” says Luke. “Me too.”

They sit in silence for a while, leaning on each other a little more. It’s more emotionally comfortable than physically, since their injuries bump each other and their sore muscles can’t seem to agree on an easy position, but eventually they end up back how they were at the station: Luke’s head on Wedge’s shoulder, Wedge’s head pressed warm against Luke’s hair. Luke thinks vaguely that he’s glad he washed his hair before trying to go to bed.

“Do you mind?” Wedge mumbles, sliding his arm out from where it’s crammed between them and looping it around Luke’s shoulders. “I’ve got a cramp.”

“It’s fine,” Luke says, and he smiles at Wedge. Wedge looks at him so softly that Luke almost can’t bear it, can’t bear the thought that he ever resented Wedge or that anyone could hurt him.

“Luke,” Wedge says, quietly.

“Yeah,” says Luke.

“I’m sorry.” Wedge shifts a little; the fabric of his jacket tickles Luke’s arm. “I should’ve kept you safe.”

“You kept the Alliance safe,” Luke points out. “That’s a lot bigger deal.”

Wedge sighs. “I wish I could’ve done both.”

Luke nods. “It’s so karked up, you know?” he says. The words rush out of him, almost against his will. “What’s the point of being a rebel soldier if I can’t, can’t do anyone any good?”

Wedge raises an incredulous eyebrow. “You blew up the Death Star, Skywalker. You saved entire planets, systems maybe.”

“Yeah, well. Couldn’t save Biggs,” Luke mutters.

Wedge’s body tenses against Luke’s, and they both sigh.

“Nobody could,” Wedge says. “Not your fault.”

Luke nods a little, his bruised cheek rubbing against Wedge’s shoulder. “Not yours either.”

Wedge nods in turn. He brings his right hand over to Luke’s, clasps it, and Luke rubs his thumb over the vein that threads up towards Wedge’s fingers.

They’re quiet again. Outside, a ship takes off.

“I got used to sharing a bed, too,” Luke admits.

“Biggs had the bunk above me,” Wedge says. “You want to—I mean, they’ll put somebody there anyway before long.”

“Yeah,” says Luke. He squeezes Wedge’s hand tight. “I want to. But tonight, let’s just…yeah?”

“Yeah,” says Wedge, as he squeezes back. Luke closes his eyes, letting sleep drift over him, letting Wedge’s breathing fill him with a fragile peace.


End file.
